


Dean Winchester and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

by Zeke21



Series: Dean Winchester and The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parent John Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Dean Winchester Talks About Feelings, Dean Winchester in Hell, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Heart-to-Heart, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Sam Winchester, Sequel, Smoking, Trauma, i'm trying to quit sorry, lots of smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 04:51:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeke21/pseuds/Zeke21
Summary: And the eternal rewards of being loved(sequel fic)





	1. Sam

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really intend to write this, but as I was writing 'my self is just me...' i kept thinking about how they would have to deal with it all, so I started writing about what I thought they would say to each other and then suddenly it was 10,000 words long.  
anyway, enjoy xx

**SAM**

Sam spends the first hour sending pointed looks over his shoulder to make Cas check his phone. It takes him half an hour (and Dean nearly swerving off the road) to realise Cas isn’t seeing them because he’s staring at Dean’s eyes in the rear-view mirror (and that Dean is staring back). It takes him another half hour to remember that Cas doesn’t sleep – so his texted plea for privacy is pointless anyway. He doesn’t bother to smother his sigh – it’s going to be a long journey. 

It takes another fifteen minutes of unbearably loaded eye contact before he cracks.

“You know,” he says, feigning a yawn to cover up his smile when both Dean and Cas jump. “I’m actually kinda beat. Could you pull over so I can stretch out in the back? Cas can swap with me.”

Dean nods and slows to a stop, shooting him a silent thank you, while Cas narrows his eyes in suspicious confusion. Sam makes a great show of fishing his headphones out of a pocket and turning the volume on his phone up loud as Cas takes his space up front.

He actually _is _tired, exhausted even (God knows how Dean must feel – it was _his _head). So, once he’s balled up his coat to use as a pillow, the familiar and comforting vibrations of the engine and the road soon lull him into a dreamless sleep.

He drifts in and out of consciousness – waking whenever a song is a little too loud or fast. The first time his eyes open it’s to the sight of Cas reaching over to grasp Dean’s hand on the steering wheel. His mouth is open but Sam can’t hear the words. In the mirror, he sees Dean’s eyes dart to his, and he closes them at once. He hopes Dean didn’t notice. And if he did notice he hopes he didn’t mind too much. He knows that Dean probably never wanted to have this conversation in the first place, but that if he had ever pictured it, it probably involved a _lot _more alcohol and probably didn’t involve his little brother pretending to be asleep in the background. He pushes the thought (and the morbid curiosity that’s trying to get him to open his eyes) aside as best he can and tries to think himself back to sleep. After a while, it works.

The next time he’s semi-conscious, the whole sky is purple and there’s a sheep floating in front of his face, mooing. He thinks he’s probably dreaming. He closes his eyes.

The third time he’s sure he must still be dreaming because Cas is driving the impala which shouldn’t happen, and he’s driving it one handed which _definitely _shouldn’t be happening. Dean is in the passenger seat, and Sam can’t see his face because it’s buried in his hands but his shoulders are shaking. The hand Cas should be using to drive is on Dean’s knee – it’s all too surreal to be fake. Sam doesn’t want to see this; he doesn’t want Dean to think he might see this so he turns around and watches the soft leather of the back seat until his eyes drift shut again.

The none too gentle lurch of an inexperienced foot on the brake nearly has him sliding off the seat. Blearily, he sits up – the familiar interior of the bunker’s garage dimly visible through the windows. Cas is extricating himself clumsily from the driver’s seat. Dean is passed out on the passenger side – snoring softly.

Sam wavers – he doesn’t want to wake Dean up, but he also knows that the longer he leaves it, the likelihood of them talking will dwindle to nothing. And this talk _needs _to happen.

There’s a soft tapping on the window. “He said that you should wake him,” Cas says, voice slightly muffled by the glass. “He wants to do it now too.”

“How did –” Sam begins to ask, but Cas is already walking away. Supressing both a sigh and his curiosity, Sam reaches into the front and taps Dean on the shoulder. “Hey,” he murmurs as Dean begins to shift. “Dean, wake up.”

“Huh?” Dean turns to look at him, eyes quickly sharpening as he comes awake. “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam is surprised to find himself almost shy – now that the moment is finally here he finds almost doesn’t want to go through with it. “Can we talk?”

Dean’s eyes crinkle and he laughs softly. “Yeah: course. Do you, uh, wanna drive somewhere else? I think it’ll be easier in the car.”

Sam nods – that feels right. It means Dean won’t be able to run away at least. He hops out and hurries back into the front seat – Dean sliding with practiced ease to his customary spot behind the wheel. In smooth silence, Dean guides them out the garage and back onto the road – his grace a marked contrast with Cas’ earlier clumsiness.

For the first ten minutes neither of them talks, but the quiet is a comfortable one. Sam is ordering his thoughts – or trying to at least. He has a million questions he wants to ask, a million more he wants to answer, and all of them are clamouring at the edge of his mind, each asserting their urgency and significance. He has a feeling Dean is waiting for him to start, but he has no clue where to even think about beginning. Rather than look at his brother, he glances out the window – and is struck with an idea at the sight of a particular turn off.

“Take a right here,” he points. “There’s something I wanna show you.”

Dean nods, and turns off the highway onto the smaller, darker, country road. “Is it far?” he asks.

“Not really: but it’s easy to miss in the dark – I’ll let you know when we’re close.”

“Alright.”

Now the silence is awkward – Sam casts about for something to say, and settles on one of the least important questions currently on his mind. “So…you let Cas drive?”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah well, I needed the sleep and he needs the practice.”

“How did he do?”

“Pretty good – she likes him,” he taps the steering wheel affectionately, “don’t you baby?”

“Uh huh,” Sam says flatly. “I’m sure ‘she’ does.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, but there’s a small smile on his lips. Sam can’t see in the dimness, but he’s sure Dean is blushing a little too. “He’s better than you were at least. At least he didn’t almost kill some old lady.”

“Hey that’s not fair!” Sam objects. “I was _fourteen_, and she wasn’t _that _old.”

“She had a walking stick, Sam.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah you ran over it – do you seriously not remember?”

“All I really remember is Dad screaming at me to slow down while you laughed yourself sick in the backseat,” Sam confesses – ears hot. “But I don’t think it’s a fair comparison anyway. How many old ladies do you see wandering down the freeway?”

“You got a point there,” Dean concedes. Then: “Did you hear anything we talked about – me and Cas?”

“No,” Sam assures him. “Did it go well?”

“Yup.”

“Is that all you’re gonna say?”

“No,” Dean says, reluctantly. “Cas said owed you something more. So, um, don’t be surprised if you see him coming out my room I guess – and, uh, don’t get all gooey whenever you see us kiss or whatever.”

“Wow: ten years of eye fucking and that’s all you can say? Nice Dean. Romantic”

“Do I look like a twelve year old girl to you? Is this a sleepover? We gonna eat pizza and give each other makeovers while I tell you all about my new boyfriend?” He stutters slightly on the last word – Sam decides to ignore it.

“I don’t know, that sounds like a lot of fun to me.” He says instead.

“Ok yeah it does,” Dean admits begrudgingly after a few seconds.

“I, uh, I didn’t know you liked men…”

“Yeah,” Dean snickers, “Cas said. It’d make me worried about you and your powers of observation if you hadn’t already survived this long.”

“That’s hardly fair – you never exactly advertised it.”

“I never exactly hid it either,” Dean points out. “Just ‘cos I don’t hang pride flags from the impala and just cos’ I used to use the word ‘gay’ as an insult doesn’t mean I was repressed,” he smiles. “But don’t be too hard on yourself Sammy – it didn’t happen as often as you’re probably thinkin’ it did.”

“You wanna tell me more?”

“I could, but I know you didn’t just go through what we just went through to talk about my sex life.”

“Turn left here,” Sam says instead of answering. “And go slow.”

The car trundles down a dirt pathway, rolling past dark trees. The beams from the headlights pick out a break in the leaves – a black lake visible beyond them – the tops of the waves just illuminated by the weak moonlight.

“I didn’t know this was here,” Dean says as they roll to a stop.

“I found it one of the times you were gone,” Sam tells him. “I forget which one exactly. It was a space to think, whenever it was.”

“There are cigarettes in the glove box: do you want one?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He finds them under their backup backup phone and a pile of yellow newspaper clippings from an old case a he doesn’t even remember. The box is battered, torn and faded, half empty and with some of the cigarettes broken or partially smoked.

“How long have these been in here?” Sam asks as they perch precariously on the bonnet of the impala. It’s the same box, he realises with a chill, as the memory with Cas.

“A long time,” Dean shrugs, fishing a lighter out of his pocket and sticking the cigarette in his mouth. “I haven’t smoked ‘em in a while though.” He brings the flame up to his face, cupping his hand against the gentle wind. Together, they watch the waves.

“Every time you’re gone – for whatever reason – it’s like a piece of my world is gone too, and I mean that literally.” Sam says. “It’s like if you woke up one day and all the mountains had just vanished. How are you supposed to continue with half the landscape missing?”

Dean takes a long drag on the cigarette, blowing smoke across the lake. He passes the lighter to Sam.

“That’s what this felt like,” Sam takes the lighter but keeps it in his hand for now. “Except the reason I couldn’t see the mountains was because I was _in _them, wandering through hidden tunnels and mines, following underground rivers and mineral veins. Finding lions’ dens and hidden pools with diamonds at the bottom. They became everything I could see, feel, hear and smell. And now that I’m out, I can’t look at the mountains without seeing the caves I know are inside them now. The whole landscape has cracked open for me and I don’t know where to start.”

“Maybe stay clear of the lions. I hear they bite.”

“I’m being serious, Dean!”

“I know you are – but I’ve been torn wide open Sammy so I’m not really up to following these metaphors all the way through to the end. Pick somewhere – anywhere – and we’ll get to the rest eventually. However long it takes. I told Cas not to wait up.”

Sam thinks. “Let’s start at the bottom and work our way up,” he suggests. “The very bottom.”

“Hell.” Dean might be swearing.

“Hell.” Sam might be too.

Dean blows more smoke into the air. “There’s barely a day where I don’t think about it,” he says – turning to look at Sam. “It’s always there – waiting. There’s more of it than there is up here y’know? Forty years. Sometimes I don’t think I ever escaped – that I’ll open my eyes and be on that fucking rack again. Or worse: off it. But still there.”

“What happened to you, what you did–”

“What I did can’t ever be forgiven,” Dean says flatly. “And I stopped trying to forgive myself a long time ago. I know I held out for as long as I could (which was nowhere near long enough) and I know I’ve done some good since I got back…but I still don’t feel any better about it so don’t try to make me.”

“I wasn’t. I was just going to say that I don’t think I ever really understood it before,” Sam pauses, meets Deans eyes. “With Lucifer…well a lot of it is gone, but what I do remember is just pain, y’know? He only wanted to hurt me, to punish me for beating him. And no matter what he did to me _that_ was always something I could hold on to – the satisfaction of winning. It felt worth it most of the time. You never got that. He never tried to turn me against myself, or make me hurt other people. He never unmade me, except for literally.” There are, he’s mildly surprised to realise, hot tears threatening to brim over his eyes. He blinks them away furiously. Now is not the time.

“I could feel it happening,” Dean is saying. “After I broke, I could feel myself coming apart. It scared me, but staying together was scarier, especially after what I did to you. I needed it.”

“You didn’t do _anything _to me.”

“I stabbed you in the heart!”

“Yeah but –”

“It wasn’t real? I’ve still got blood on my damn shirt Sam.”

“Can you stop interrupting me? I was _going_ to say it doesn’t matter.”

“How can it not?”

“Because it got us out of there. Because it _worked._”

“Yeah but what about the first time it happened?” Dean holds up a hand to forestall him. “Yes it wasn’t _really _you, but I believed it was, so what difference does that make? And from now on it always _will _be really you. And I didn’t do it then to save you or free us from some spell; I did it because I wanted to hurt you, because I wanted to not hurt more than I wanted to protect you. How can you know that and still trust me?”

“Dean that happened how many years ago? And have you ever knowingly hurt me like that since? Or even tried to? As a human at least,” he amends hurriedly. “Demon you doesn’t count.” He scrubs a hand over his face, “Look, I wanted to start with hell because I know it’s what’s tearing you up the most, and I wanted you to know that I’m not angry or disgusted or anything like that. I don’t hate you for being pushed so far you had to hurt me. Do you believe me?”

Dean finishes his cigarette, makes to flick the butt into the lake then reconsiders – placing it back in the box instead. “I’m trying to: I really am but…all I ever wanted to do was keep you safe, Sam. You _saw _how much of me that is. And when I broke, it was like my world ended,” he laughs hollowly, “and then I got out and I found out that the world _had_ ended because I couldn’t do my damn job. So I get what you’re saying and I know it’s true, but I also know it’s not.”

“We saved the world though,” Sam reminds him.

“Yeah and I couldn’t keep you safe then either,” Dean frowns at the moon.

“But I’m here now. We both are.”

“Yeah, I guess we are. Sort of,” Dean takes another cigarette from the box. Sam leans over, the lighter in his hand. “Thanks,” Dean tilts his head downwards towards the flame. “You gonna smoke yours or just hold it?” 

Sam’s forgotten the one his hand – it’s gotten a little bent as they’ve talked. He straightens it as best he can and sticks it in his mouth. Dean watches, a light amusement written in the lines of his face. Sam inhales the smoke, then immediately exhales as it burns his throat. Eyes watering, he coughs and Dean laughs, patting him hard on the back.

“I knew you’ve never smoked,” he says gleefully.

“It’s awful,” Sam wheezes. “God!”

“Looks cool though,” Dean illustrates his point by blowing a smoke ring into the night air. “You get used to it.”

Sam waves it away. “How did you even start anyway?”

Dean shrugs. “Don’t really remember. Probably picked it up from some kid at some school that I was trying to impress.”

“Did Dad know?”

“Nah,” Dean snorts, “he would’ve killed me. Guess it was my one rebellion.”

“He hated it that much?”

“You can’t chase demons if your lungs are black.”

Tentatively, Sam takes another drag – managing to keep from coughing this time. The ghost of their father floats in the smoke between them. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific there, Sam,” Dean says wryly.

“About smoking. About Dad.”

“Honestly,” Dean says, “I thought you knew.”

“Huh?”

“About both. I mean, smoke is a pretty hard smell to cover up.”

“I guess I just never thought it was yours – figured it came from whatever bar you’d been hustling or body you’d been burning.”

“Well –”

“Don’t try to distract me from the real issue here,” Sam interrupts him. “What do you mean you thought I knew about Dad?” 

Dean shrugs with a poorly faked nonchalance. “You saw how he raised me, Sam: half son half soldier. He taught me how to shoot when I was five – he left you alone with me when I was six. He started taking me with him when I was _nine_ for fuck's sake.”

“But there’s a line between –”

“Is there?” Dean asks. “You were there. He’d put a gun in my hand and leave. If he came back and I was asleep, or if I forgot to check he was still human, he’d make me stand at attention for hours. He’d tell me that things were out to get us – to get you – and that if I couldn’t handle myself they’d win and it’d be on me: a kid. And that was all _true_. Something, a butt load of somethings, _were _out to get us. I saved your ass more than a few times y’know, and his too – and how many times have we saved each other since then? Because of what he taught us. But for all that, was it any less cruel than the times he’d hit me? Or kick me? Or throw a bottle at my head?”

“He threw a _bottle_?”

“Yeah a couple of times, when he was really drunk,” Dean says lightly, like he’s talking about the weather. Sam supposes he is, in a way. “And another couple times sober – to teach me to dodge, he said. See what I mean? Where’s the line?”

“Christ.”

Dean frowns in confusion towards Sam. “I don’t get why you’re surprised,” he says. “I know I tried to hide some of it from you, but you were always so smart, and you always hated the way we grew up. I figured you always knew this shit.”

“Wait,” Sam is aghast. “You thought that I knew he was hurting you, and I still left?”

Dean shrugs.

“And every time, _every time_, I ever accused you of being brainwashed, or his lapdog or whatever the other shit I used to say was, you thought I _knew _that…” he can’t finish the sentence.

“I figured you thought I was stupid for never fighting back.” Dean’s voice shakes a little.

“God Dean,” Sam chokes. “I could never…I would never…shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Dean says, just like his younger self had said all those years/hours ago sitting on the hood of this same car, smoking a different pack of cigarettes. This time, though, Dean sounds like he means it. “This makes it easier, in a way. But tell me: what _did _you think was going on? With Dad.”

Sam chews his lip, considering. “I thought I knew where he was coming from,” he says eventually. “I didn’t like the way he acted, but I knew he was only doing what he thought he had to. I never thought he really wanted to hurt us (you) just to hurt us, and that when he did it was always ultimately to keep us safe or make us strong. I didn’t like it, but I _got _it. I thought he loved us. Underneath it all.”

“I think he did but…I don’t know if loving someone is enough to stop you from hurting them. It hasn’t been for me,” Dean sniffs.

“You aren’t like him,” Sam says instantly. “_We _aren’t like him.”

Dean laughs but it doesn’t sound much like a laugh. “It’s funny y’know. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be him or trying to please him – even after he was gone, even after I started to understand what he was, he was still at the back of _everything_ I did. ”

“When did you start to see?”

“I mean, I always knew, sort of. You saw. I didn’t slip so easily into the box he wanted me in – it took a little hammering on his part.”

“Literally.”

“Yeah and more figuratively as well, especially as you got older.”

“He used me _against _you?” Sam feels his hand tighten involuntarily into a fist. He wishes their father was in front of them so he could punch something softer than the metal of the impala but harder than the air in front of him.

“Not deliberately,” Dean says quickly, putting his hand on Sam’s wrist and squeezing until Sam’s fingers relax. “And not consciously either – I don’t think. It was just like, if I was being slow or not doing what he ordered he’d ask you to do it instead. He started taking you on hunts with us and I couldn’t let you get hurt, so it was easier to just do what he said and not think too much about it. He didn’t really care who did it – he just wanted it done.”

“Why didn’t I notice this happening? Why didn’t I notice any of it?”

“Sam,” Dean says urgently. “_I _didn’t notice it was happening and it was happening _to_ me. I didn’t even think about it much until long after he was dead.”

“When?”

I think…when I was with Lisa and Ben,” Dean trails off, looking at his hands, blinking furiously. Sam lets it sit – he doesn’t think Dean’s even said their names out loud in years. They stay that way for a while, the only sounds the rustle of the trees and the gentle lapping of lake water on the shore.

“I’d just lost you,” Dean says eventually. “I’d just watched you jump into hell. I was a mess. I was basically just whisky and nightmares, but she took me in any way, and she put salt on her windows and carved devils traps into the floor and she waited until I was enough of a person to love again. Then she loved me. And she let me love her, and Ben.”

“Was Ben… was he yours?”

“Doesn’t matter: we acted like he was mine. For the first few months, I was so fucking terrified I’d do what Dad did. I couldn’t even tell him to take out the trash without freaking out that I’d been too harsh: that he was only doin’ it because he was scared of me. But I couldn’t explain why, not even to myself. I didn’t even know enough to know that I was scared, I just felt this tension building inside me and I didn’t know when it was going to burst through. Then…” Dean stops again, hands twisting into knots in his lap. “He and Lisa had a fight about something – I don’t remember what. A school trip maybe.

“Whatever it was it was pretty stupid but it got bad fast. I was just sitting there between them and there was this fear – so much that I couldn’t move – that he was gonna say something and I was gonna explode the way dad used to. There was a beer on the table in front on me, and all I could think was that I was gonna throw it at him, or at the wall behind him. Then…then he called Lisa a bitch,” Dean stops again, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“And?” Sam thinks his heart might’ve stopped.

“And nothing,” Dean lets out a shaky breath. Sam does too. “I was angry, of course, and I told him to knock it off but…I didn’t even think about hurting him – didn’t have to stop myself from grabbing that bottle, or even hitting the table. I didn’t want to hurt him, even though I was angry. 

“The minute I realised that it was like this…you say that I’m your mountains? Well Dad was my sky and it was like the storm clouds he left over me just burst. I went out into the garden and just cried.” He’s crying again, Sam sees, the tear tracks glistening on his cheeks. “I couldn’t stop,” he tilts his head back and the tears collect in the wrinkles round his eyes (and had they always been so deep?). “Ever since then, it’s been harder to deal with…with dad.” They lapse back into silence, each digesting. The cigarette in Sam’s hand has gone out. He offers it to Dean, who shakes his head.

“I wish,” Sam says, “I wish I could’ve been there for you. I wish I wasn’t gone.”

“I’m glad you didn’t have to go through it. I’m glad I could do that much. I meant what I said in there: as much as it hurts, and as much as I sometimes think you’re wrong, a part of me is always proud of you for leaving – for being able to think about after. About beyond me, beyond him, beyond mountains.” Dean says, wiping his eyes. “The weirdest part is that I still love him.” his voice cracks. “I still love him so much.”

Sam pulls him into a hug. He tries to make it like the ones Dean used to give him, back when he was the taller one – tight and engulfing, becoming the whole world. Dean’s arms reach around and encircle his back, squeezing hard in return. The shakes of one body become the trembling of the other – the heartbeats are indistinguishable. They stay that way for a while.

“You said ‘was’,” Sam says as they break apart. “About Dad.”

“What?”

“You said he _was _at the back of everything: has that changed?”

“I think so yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Since about,” Dean checks his watch, “seven hours ago?”

“Seriously?”

“Well I did carry a magically personified version of my psyche out of its metaphorical cage – that’s probably worth about twenty years of therapy.”

“You really think that?”

Dean shrugs. “Cas does. All I know is that it feels like the clouds have gone and the sun is out for the first time in years. Maybe they’ll come back, maybe not.”

“I hope not,” Sam says fervently. “I think I’ve learned more about you in the last day than in the last thirty years combined.”

“And to think all it took was getting magically trapped in my own brain and having to stab you in the heart to get out.”

“It was almost worth it, I’d say.”

“Oh really?” Dean snorts. “You wanna go next?”

“I said almost.” A breeze from the lake passes through them. Sam pulls his jacket closer, shivering slightly.

“You cold?” Dean asks instantly. “We should probably head home.”

“A little yeah,” Sam admits. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Sure, but let’s do it in the car.”

“Before, in that last memory,” Sam asks as they pull carefully away from the lake. “How did you know what to say to yourself?”

“I thought about what I wanted to hear at that age, at that moment,” Dean says, “about all the things I told myself to make it ok – then I said the exact opposite.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Dean says shortly, “I couldn’t lie in there.”

The rest of the drive passes quickly. Sam occasionally looks over at Dean, who’s watching the road. His relaxed posture is a familiar one, especially behind the wheel, but Sam’s sure there’s an ease, a lightness that wasn’t there before. The rest of the time he stares out the window – watching the outlines of mountains roll by.

Cas is waiting for them at the bunker – sitting stiffly in one of the most uncomfortable chairs, reading a book. He turns as they enter, his face splitting into a smile.

“I thought I said you didn’t need to wait up,” Dean frowns.

“I bought beer,” Cas replies. “And I don’t sleep.”

“Guess I can’t be angry then,” Dean grunts. “Is it in the fridge?”

“Yes,” Cas’ eyes follow Dean as he heads towards the kitchen, then turn to Sam’s. “How did it go?” he asks.

“Good,” Sam smiles. “It was really good.” He wants to say more, but Dean re-enters before he can – three bottles in hand.

“Right,” he says firmly, “no more serious talk for the night. We’re gonna talk about Star Wars and that’s it.”

Cas frowns. “I haven’t seen the latest one, but a man on the internet –”

“Nope! Nope! New plan: we’re gonna watch the Last Jedi, we’re gonna cry at its utter brilliance, then we’re gonna go to that guy’s house and you’re gonna smite him. C’mon.”

“I don’t think that would be an appropriate use of my powers, Dean.”

“Monsters like that are _why _you were given those powers in the first place, trust me,” Dean herds them towards the living room, pushing beer into their hands.

Sam allows himself to be pushed onto the sofa, Cas perching uncertainly beside him as Dean fusses with the TV. It only takes him a few seconds of muttered swearing before the title appears on screen. “Move your ass Sammy,” he orders – squeezing himself between Sam and Cas. “And Cas: relax. It’s a movie, not an exam.”

Sam laughs at the perplexed look Cas shoots him as Dean rearranges them, though he goes more willingly when he realises his new position lets him put a hand on Dean’s knee. Tactfully, Sam angles his body away from them – focusing on the film. Within a few minutes both are engrossed, though Dean seems to be more interested in watching Cas’ face than the movie itself. They barely react when Sam excuses himself to make some popcorn, and don’t even seem to notice his return – though they’ve used the extra legroom to curl up together.

It’s all a bit absurd – Cas is still wearing his trench coat, Dean’s shirt is still bloody. Still, Sam thinks as he drops into a vacant armchair, it’s a Winchester absurdity through and through.


	2. Cas

**CAS**

His phone buzzed an hour ago. It’s probably from Sam, but Cas doesn’t want to check. He can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from where Dean’s are in the mirror – he’s scared that Dean will see him look away (as he has so many times before) and read abandonment or disgust in the gesture. So he pushes aside all distractions (Sam and his pointed gazes; the lingering human urges of hunger, pain and thirst (still not quite suppressed by his sluggish grace) that are vying for his attention; the noise of other cars on the road) and tries instead to put every emotion he can into his eyes. It’s a tactic he and Dean have been using for nearly ten years (albeit somewhat unconsciously) and he can see that it’s working as well as it ever does, which means: a lot is being said, but little is being understood – by either of them. Dean’s eyes have barely left his since the drive started.

He doesn’t know how long this has been going on when Sam yawns. They both startle – Dean’s eyes jumping from his.

“Y’know, I’m actually pretty tired – can you pull over so I can stretch out in the back?” Sam says to Dean. “Cas can swap with me.”

Sam and Dean exchange a look that seems much more meaningful than a simple acknowledgement, yet Cas isn’t sure why. Sam looks back at him and smiles at something as Dean pulls into the side of the road.

It feels a little strange to be in the front seat. There is, he notices with a jolt, nothing between him and Dean. If he wanted to (if Dean wanted him to) he could reach out and grasp his thigh. He knots his hands in his lap instead.

A faint thumping (From Sam’s headphones) drifts across from the back seat. Cas frowns, even more confused than before. “I thought Sam was tired?” he asks Dean. “How is he meant to sleep when the music is so loud?”

Dean smiles softly. “He’s only pretending to sleep,” he explains. “So that we can talk. That’s his way of letting us know he can’t hear us.”

“Oh,” Cas finally checks his phone. “He sent me a text two hours ago asking me to do the same.”

“Did he now?” Dean sighs. “I guess he wanted the first shake at the heart to heart game.”

Cas bites back the _‘it’s not a game’ _and instead says: “Are you going to talk to him?”

“I kinda have to don’t I?” Dean sighs again, shooting him a weary look. “And we need to talk too don’t we?”

“Yes.”

But neither of them speaks.

“Fuck,” Dean curses after ten minutes of silence.

“I agree.”

“Fuck.”

“So you said.”

“I never even let myself practice this,” Dean admits angrily. “I always kinda thought that, if it all ever came out (which it never would) I wouldn’t have to say anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that, I dunno, I’d wake up one day and you’d be there and that would be it. That’s how it’s always happened in the past. It was like that with Cassie (and Jonah), with Li…” he grimaces, cuts himself off. “…with everyone. It just kind of…happened.”

“I imagine there was a lot more alcohol involved,” Cas observes, which makes Dean laugh at least.

“Yeah probably. And less magical action replay,” he scowls. “Fucking witches.”

“Dean, I –”

“Wait,” Dean stops him. “I can’t talk about that…not yet. We will, I promise, just not right now.”

“Ok.”

Behind them, Sam’s breathing has evened out and deepened – edging into snores. Dean looks at him fondly in the mirror. “That kid can sleep through anything, I swear.”

“He was surprised,” Cas finds himself saying. “About Jonah.”

Dean purses his lips. “I never meant to hide it from him,” he says. “Not really. It just didn’t really happen that often. Me sleeping with men I mean,” he adds at Cas’ confused expression. “I didn’t really even twig that I found men attractive until after Sam left for college and dad gave me some space, and the men I do find attractive are pretty few and far between. I guess I thought’d it all,” he smiles, “come out one day and that’d be the end of it.”

“That seems to be your plans for a lot of things.”

“And, as you can see, it’s working out great for me.” Dean says with sarcasm exaggerated enough for even Cas to understand – a too wide smile plastered on. His face quickly drops. “To be honest, I didn’t think it would ever come up anyway. There hasn’t really been anyone else for the past few years – man or woman. It’s only been you.” He’s not looking at Cas when he says it, staring determinedly out the windscreen instead.

Cas is at once cold and hot. It feels like there’s electricity running through his body, pooling in his elbows and knees. He reaches out to take Dean’s hand, clenched so hard around the steering wheel it’s trembling slightly, the knuckles a stark white. Dean jumps, but relaxes under his touch. “How long have you felt this way?” Cas asks him gently.

“I…” Dean’s eyes flick to the mirror briefly, then to Cas, then away again. “Fuck,” he says again, under his breath, looking down for a second. When he looks back up, his eyes flash. “Fuck it,” he says, louder. “I’m too fucking tired and I’m getting too fucking old to not say this,” he looks at Cas again and doesn’t look away. “I’ve loved you for a long time. Probably from almost since we met. But I didn’t know till Purgatory.”

“Purgatory?” Cas can’t keep the surprise from his voice.

“Yeah, you were a mess,” Dean grins. “And you abandoned me. And before that you’d been crazy, and before that you’d been dead, and before that you’d been evil. In a weird way, Purgatory was the first time I could process it all. I cut my way through half the damn monsters in the place to reach you: you were all I could think about. And when I did fucking finally find you, it was like a piece of my soul slipped back into place. I was angry, I wanted to hate you, but instead everything just felt right again. That’s when I knew,” he swears under his breath, gaze sliding back to the road. “Shit, that was sappy.”

“I think it was beautiful.”

But that just seems to make Dean more embarrassed. He ducks his head, grimacing slightly. They fall back into silence for a few miles.

“Lucifer lied,” Cas says suddenly, vehemently. The persistent niggling at the back of his mind, ever since he saw that memory, has finally made itself known to him – hatred, a new kind, towards his brother. Not the abstract hatred towards a distant foe, nor the despairing hatred of an undefeatable villain, but an intimate, personal ( human?) hatred that settles in the pit of his stomach and on the palms of his hands.

Dean tenses immediately beneath him. “What?”

“The way he described falling in love with you – he twisted it and made it sound painful. It wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Dean relaxes a mite.

“And when he said ‘I don’t know when I became capable of love’, he was lying too. I’ve always been capable of love.”

“Yeah?”

“I loved humanity from the moment they were created – but I loved them in the way you love the stars, or the flowers. Beautiful, but worlds away. Most angels do, I think, they just don’t like to admit it. They think it makes them weak.”

“Did Lucifer?” Dean asks, curious.

“No,” Cas’ mouth presses into a thin line. “He was always special that way.”

“Hmm.”

“When I rescued you from hell, and when I started to watch over you on earth,” Cas continues. “It brought me into contact with a side of humanity I’d never been allowed to see before.”

“This shitty side,” Dean interrupts moodily.

“The _true _side,” Cas corrects. “The grey side. The space between wrong and right, good and bad. That changed things – it changed the way I felt about everything. I began to see the trees instead of the forest – the individual humans with all their faults and all their beauty instead of the undifferentiated mass. It changed the way I could feel. _You _changed the way I could feel.” He pauses, but Dean doesn’t speak, just makes a small noise in the back of his throat. He squeezes Dean’s hand – still under his – and continues. “I didn’t understand it for a long time; I didn’t _want_ to understand it for a long time either – it made things too complicated. But the more time I was around you – and other humans – the harder it became to ignore.”

“Was it scary?” Dean looks directly at him for the first time in a while. “Was it hard?”

“It was terrifying. And wonderful. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and the easiest.”

“The easiest?”

“Loving you has always been easy,” Cas tells him solemnly, and the air between them feels almost solid. “Even when it’s hard.”

“Is that from a movie?” Dean asks, and the moment deflates.

“Not as far as I’m aware,” Cas says, a little affronted. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t try to derail the conversation.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just no good at this. Like I said, I’ve never done this before.”

“I think you’re doing fine,” Cas reassures him. Then he adds: “Though I’ve also never done this so I’m not exactly in a position to comment on your skills. Frankly, however, I think that we’ve probably been ‘fucking it up’ for years, so at this point anything is an improvement.”

“Yeah you’re probably right,” Dean sighs. “What now?”

“We decide what we want to do,” Cas says simply, well aware that it is anything but. “Do we move forward or stay where we are?” He hesitates, then plunges on. “And we also need to talk about Lucifer.”

Dean flinches, the car swivels slightly. He adjusts his hands on the wheel, shaking off Cas’. It hovers awkwardly in the air between them, until Cas lets it drop back into his lap. Dean’s face has closed off – the eyes are like flat disks or stones, the mouth is taught. He doesn’t speak, just hunches his shoulders – angling himself away from Cas.

“Dean I know this is hard for you but we do need –”

“What do you want?” Dean interrupts him before he can start – his voice sharp, slightly desperate.

“What do I want?”

“Yeah – you said we had to decide what we wanted to do. What do you want to do?”

“I…” Cas is a little taken aback. “I want to…” he trails off, unsure of what to say. Where to start.

Dean makes a soft noise that is almost a laugh. “It can’t just be me Cas,” he says patiently. Or desperately. Maybe both at once. “I know this is the ‘make Dean talk’ part of the adventure, but this is about both of us – an’ I haven’t just escaped from a magical hell tour of your mind so I really need to know where you’re coming from.”

Cas nods, then realises Dean can’t see the movement: he’s still watching the road. “That’s fair,” he says out loud, then he pauses, trying to think of the right words to match the emotions that have been growing inside him for nearly ten years. “I have this…image in my mind,” he starts haltingly. “A daydream perhaps? I don’t know where it came from and it doesn’t make much sense but it I like to think about it.” He waits for Dean’s signal before he continues. 

“I’m in a bed – which is strange because I don’t sleep – but I’m not injured or sick. I’m comfortable and…and happy. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, everything is ok. There’s nothing going wrong, no apocalypse to fight or insurmountable odds to overcome. I’m lying in bed and everything is ok,” He can’t look at Dean right now – he focuses on his hands instead. “And then I turn over and you’re there beside me – and I can reach out and touch you, and hold you, and put my hand through your hair. You’re there and you’re not going to vanish, you’re not going to have to get up and sacrifice yourself for the world again. It’s just you and me, and outside of us there’s peace,” he shakes his head. “And I know that we’ll probably never have peace, but I pray every day to a god I know doesn’t care that I can have you.”

It’s only when he’s finished talking that he realises Dean is breathing very fast – faster than sitting behind the wheel of a car warrants. He’s staring ahead, tears streaming down his unfocused eyes, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly that the car has begun to veer from side to side as his whole body shakes.

“Dean?” Cas says, alarmed, and the impala makes a particularly nerve racking lurch to the right as Dean turns to look at him and his arms move with his head. “Dean!”

“Shit,” Dean gasps out. “Fuck…that’s…I can’t…Cas…I can’t…the car.”

“Pull over,” Cas tells him – silently praying that the erratic movements of the car won’t wake Sam. “I need you to pull over for me – can you do that?”

Dean nods.

Somewhat miraculously, he manages to guide the car to a more or less gentle stop on the side of the road. Leaving the engine running, Dean fumbles blindly, first with his seatbelt and then the door – his hands shaking violently. It takes him a few seconds, but soon he’s stumbling out into the cold night air – breath visible in rapid clouds. Cas struggles with his belt too: his own hands are none to stable either. Sam, snoring gently in time with the engine, sleeps on – none the wiser, it seems, to drama of the front.

By the time Cas has extricated himself from the passenger side, Dean is on his knees in the spotlight of the impala’s headlights. Cas falters – it’s an all too familiar scene, only this time reversed and he can’t quite bring himself to step into centre stage, considering what happened the last time. In the back of his mind, all the other times Dean’s been on his knees in front of him (the crypt, as god, as leviathan, even in hell – the twisted grey remains shaking on the ground in front of him, at once entranced by his light and mortally wounded by it, begging to be returned, to be burned) clamour for his attention – each trying to supplant themselves onto the moment happening now.

Dean makes a small hiccupping noise – jolting Cas back to the present. Trying not to think of much, he steps up to Dean, dropping down so they’re at roughly the same height. The gravel presses into his knees – each stone an individual sensation even through the thick cloth of his pants. Slowly, almost too slowly to bear, he reaches his hands towards Dean’s face. At the sight of them Dean flinches involuntarily, and Cas freezes instantly (a part of him wondering how many times since ‘then’ Dean has shed from his touch and he hasn’t noticed, or has noticed but callously dismissed it as emotional repression or general skittishness. How many times has Dean ignored the pain and betrayal to maintain his friendship? How many times has he prioritised Castiel’s happiness above his own?) his hands hovering in the air between them. Dean makes no further move to pull away, however, so Cas lets his hands move to either side of Dean’s face – tilting it upwards until they’re eye to eye.

In the harsh white light of the headlights, Dean’s face is blotchy mess. There are still tears leaking out his red rimmed eyes – which seem unfocused, darting over Cas’ face as if searching for something. He seems to find whatever it is he’s looking for, as his whole body relaxes into Cas’ touch – eyes closing in relief, hands coming up to grip Cas’ wrists.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters – voice hoarse. “didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You don’t…it’s me that should be apologising. I should’ve been more careful, I shouldn’t have assumed that…”his voice catches “…that you would want what I want.”

Dean’s eyes snap open. “_I do_,” he whispers urgently. “I do. What you described…it’s all I can think about sometimes. I just never thought it would be something an angel could ever want. It’s so…human. So small.”

“Well, I’m not really much of an angel anymore,” yet the words don’t fill him with the gloom they normally do. “And after all these years, human is hardly an insult.”

“It’s something I never thought I could have,” Dean admits. “Not after everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been through it’s…”

“Everything you deserve,” Cas finishes for him. He traces his thumbs tenderly over the bags under Dean’s eyes – wiping away the tears: again and again as they continue to fall, unsure of where the instinct is coming from, but glad of it all the same. “And more.”

“I want to kiss you so bad right now,” Dean murmurs – but he doesn’t move so neither does Cas. “But.”

“But?”

Dean closes his eyes again. “But I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Scared that it will be too much. Scared that it won’t be enough,” he takes a deep breath. “Scared that I won’t know it’s you – that I’ll think it’s _Him_ or Alistair or anyone else that ever only used to me to get off. Scared that I can’t tell the difference between being used and being loved. Scared that even if I can, I won’t care – that I’m so fucked up I need to be used.” As he talks, his hand flickers in an aborted motion towards his mouth – towards the scar – before coming back to grasp Cas’ wrist.

Cas brushes gentle fingers over the slightly silver skin – a thin line on Dean’s bottom lip with a smooth patch underneath – no stubble. “I’m sorry I never noticed.”

Dean shrugs. “What’s one more wound?”

“I can heal the scar.”

Dean shakes his head sadly. “The pain’ll still be there – I just won’t know if I’m meant to hurt.”

“Dean,” Cas steels himself for the answer, “do you trust me?”

Dean leans in closer – until their noses are touching. “I want to,” he breathes out – so quietly only Cas could ever hear him. “Every part of me wants to – even the scars.”

Cas puts his hand under Dean’s chin. “Then do,” he says, and presses his lips gently onto Dean’s.

They stay that way for a long time – and Cas can feel when Dean begins to relax. He feels hands leave his wrist and rematerialize in his hair, pulling him closer as Dean deepens the kiss. Cas lets him take the lead while also trying to put everything he couldn’t say with words into the press of their mouths. He can feel the wetness of Dean’s cheeks – pressed up against his own – the pleasant burn of stubble on stubble. He can feel every atom that Dean is made of – a trillion tiny stars all pressing towards him – calling to particles of his vessel and his grace, crashing into one another in triumphant waves. This, he thinks, is better than anything God has ever given him.

Dean pulls back – just to breathe – then kisses him again. And again. And again. Each time is exactly the same as the one before it – except that they’re each totally different. Each kiss brings that same rush, that same joy, even as the physical particularities change. The closest feeling Cas can remember – the only feeling somewhat comparable – is the moment of his own creation (back when everything was created) when, for one brief second, he had been everything all at once. Every possible shape, every possible thought, colour, action, wish, dream, desire – he had felt them all, had been them all until suddenly he wasn’t anymore. Until now.

“This is,” he says.

“Perfect,” Dean says, and kisses him again. And again.

“I love you,” he says the next time they break apart.

“I love you too.” And then Dean is crying again. He rests his head on Cas’ shoulder and sobs openly – his cries echoing slightly in the night. It’s a jarring, disconcerting sound – Dean cries like he doesn’t really know how to. The sobs cut themselves off, or fade away into nothing, leaving brief pauses between the waves. Some of them sound almost like giggles, others like coughs, others like words.

Wordlessly, Cas embraces him: holding him upright until the worst of the shaking has subsided. Then, he eases Dean gently back onto his feet, guiding him back towards the impala. There isn’t really a question of who can drive – so he deposits Dean on the right hand side before sliding gingerly behind the wheel. “Be gentle with me, and with him,” he murmurs, running his hand along the dashboard like he’s seen Dean do. It’s probably his imagination, but the car seems to rumble something in response.

Dean, no doubt mindful of Sam, has put his head in his hands, leaning forward. His shoulders shake with the force of his suppressed sobs – and Cas places a comforting hand on his knee, squeezing gently. The car hits a pothole, and he sees Sam’s eyes blearily open at the sudden motion. For a moment of gentle confusion, he regards the scene in front of him – his eyes widening ever so slightly when they make it to Dean’s shaking form. Promptly, Sam closes his eyes again, turning around until he’s facing the leather of the seat. Cas feels a small twinge of relief – mostly that Dean hasn’t seemed to notice – as well as a swell of affection for Sam. They ride on in near silence for a little while – though at some point Dean puts his hand on top of Cas’, clasping his fingers tightly in his own. 

“Why can’t I stop crying?” Dean grits out eventually, fighting to control his voice. “What’s wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Cas says patiently. “You’ve just been through a lot.”

“So’ve you,” Dean gripes, “an’ I don’t see you leaking like a garden sprinkler.”

“Well maybe if I’d also drastically re-altered my psyche through magic I’d be crying too.”

“You mean this is because of the spell? Like some weird side effect?”

“Not a side effect, no,” Cas frowns, casting about for the right word. “Really I don’t think it has much to do with the spell itself – more the actions the spell prompted.”

“You mean – the memories? The ones we changed?”

“We didn’t change them,” Cas corrects him. “We can’t change the past. We altered your perception of them – of yourself.”

“Except for that last one,” Dean counters. “That wasn’t even a memory. Not really. More a…compilation. Or a representation?”

“A representation,” Cas agrees. “One you literally set free from the room it was locked in. You radically altered your emotional landscape. It’s not surprising that you may not know how to react anymore, or that you may not be able to suppress your initial emotions and reactions. You left the door open after all.”

“Shit,” Dean swears. “That’s a lot Cas. How the fuck can I talk to Sam like this? Will I be like this forever?”

“You seem to be getting the tears under control,” Cas points out. “That should make things with Sam easier.”

“Can I go back? To the way I was? Fuck, am I even me anymore?”

“Do you want to go back? Do you feel like yourself?”

Dean thinks. “No,” he says after a second. “And yes.”

“Then I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Dean smiles, finally. “Thanks Cas,” he says. Then, more casually. “Y’know – you’re a really good kisser. And not a bad driver either.”

Cas feels his heartbeat speed up – which is strange because he doesn’t typically use his heart for anything physical. “Coming from you I’m not sure which is the bigger compliment.”

Dean laughs, leaning back in his chair, wiping away the last of his tears with the back of his hand. “I’ve never kissed anyone like that before,” he says. “It felt like…” he gestures with helplessly with his hands – one still entwined with Cas’.

Cas nods. He gets it.

“…Like, like the stars or something. There was this rush, as if all the blood in my body was pulling towards you.”

“You felt that too?” Cas can’t keep the surprise from his voice.

“Felt what.”

“I think it was my grace – reacting to your presence,” Cas explains. “I didn’t realise you’d also be able to sense it.”

“And that was just kissing,” Deans eyes get a faraway look. “Imagine what everything else will be like.”

“Everything else?”

“I mean yeah if that’s…if you’re comfortable with more,” Dean seems flustered.

“You mean intercourse?”

“Well that’s not the word I’d use, but yeah. And other stuff too y’know,” Dean blushes furiously, mumbling towards his lap. “Like, I dunno, cooking or watching movies or just doing shit together,” he doesn’t seem able to look at Cas. “Look,” he says, a little desperately. “We both want the same thing – but I don’t think either of us really has much experience with it, and I don’t think our lives will let it be normal, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try, y’know?”

A part of Cas marvels at how the man beside him – the man currently too embarrassed to admit he wants to go on a date – is the same man who not five minutes ago was crying into his shoulder on a cold stretch of road. That that man is the same man he’s seen face down demons, angels and god himself without sweating is all the more remarkable. He watches Dean for a little bit longer – revelling in being able to look, and to be seen looking – before he speaks.

“I’d like that,” he smiles. “Whatever we end up as, as long as it’s with you I’ll be happy,” he hesitates, unwilling to break the peaceful mood, but also unwilling to proceed on uncertainty. “I want to say one more thing, however. It’s not me trying to back out of this – it’s something I want us to be sure of.”

“What is it?” Dean sounds worried.

Cas takes a deep breath. “I’ve hurt you a lot – in the past,” he says. “And you’ve hurt me. And others have used us to hurt each other – or hurt us to hurt the other. If we are together – and I want us to be together – it will be one more way that those against us (big or small) can exploit us, can hurt us.”

To his surprise, and relief, Dean simply shrugs. “You gotta point,” he concedes. “But I think half the world already thinks we’re fucking – so whether we actually are or not won’t make a difference. Besides, they’ve always tried to do the same with me and Sam – and look how well that’s worked out. We always pull through,” he brings their hands up to his face, resting his forehead against them. “They’re always gonna hurt us anyway,” he whispers, “and I’m tired of hurting for only half of what I want – at least now I’ll know exactly what it is I’m fighting for and you can damn sure I’ll fight to keep it. That sound good to you?”

“Yes, it does.”

The rest of drive is peaceful. At some point Dean leans back in the seat, stretching his legs out. “I think I really need to sleep he says,” a little apologetically. “I’m fucking exhausted, and Sam’ll want to talk when we get home.”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“Yeah, I do. And even if I didn’t, it needs to happen.”

“What are you going to tell him – about us?”

“That it’s none of his business?” Dean asks, a little hopefully.

“You owe him more than that,” Cas says gently – but firmly. “We owe him more than that – especially after everything he’s seen.”

“That’s true,” Dean allows. “I guess I’ll tell him that we’re a ‘thing’ now – whatever that means – just so he’s not surprised. He’ll probably understand better than we do what the hell is going on – he’s way better at this kind of stuff.”

Cas nods. “That sounds good.”

“You can, uh, you can go to my room when we get back. If you want to,” Dean adds hastily. “And rest in ou…my…_the _bed. Me n’Sam might be awhile.”

“Ok.”

Not long after, Dean’s snores join his brother’s – leaving Cas alone with the rumble of the engine. The three tones – slightly dissonant but still in time with each other – strike him as basically the same. He’s never really understood Dean’s insistence on treating the impala as if it’s alive, but now he thinks he gets it. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For keeping them safe – both of them.”

Pulling into the bunker’s garage is a little tricky, and he inadvertently wakes Sam up as he does so. Figuring that both brothers will probably find this easier in a place they can’t easily escape, he makes his way into the bunker proper before Sam has a chance to question him. Sure enough, he hears the sound of a car pulling out into the night.

He soon finds himself in the kitchen – taking stock of the depressingly empty cupboards. They’re overdue a supply run, he knows, and he’s just low enough on grace that he thinks he might actually be able to enjoy some food – or even a drink. The moment he thinks it, he realises that if _he _is craving alcohol, for Sam and Dean it must be much, much worse. The fridge, like the cupboards, is sorely lacking in anything appropriate. That, more than anything, propels him into action.

It’s a short drive to the nearest store, and he even buys himself a chocolate bar – revelling in the taste he rarely gets to experience. Throughout the journey, and as he searches, he runs through his conversation with Dean in his mind – barely able to believe the result.

For nearly ten years, he’s held himself back – squashed thoughts before they could even form properly, ignored instincts, suppressed his desire to reach out, to touch. As soon as he’d become capable of a new feeling, he’d hidden it. He’d gotten so good that he’d forgotten he was doing it – like breathing or blinking, it had become one of those things he did to move through the world without arousing suspicion.

Now though, with the barriers removed and permission given, he finds himself drifting into new imaginings that remind him of dreams, though some of them may also be memories. Dean smiling, laughing. Dean kissing him. Fingers brushing over skin, running through hair. The feel of stubble on the palm of his hand, breath on the side of his neck. It’s only the disgruntled cough of the teenager at the till brings him back to reality.

“Sorry,” he mutters, a little sheepishly, digging in his pocket for cash. “Have a nice night.”

“Uh-huh. You too.”

Cas smiles softly. “I’m sure that I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at times this felt unbearably sappy, but that's kind of what i like about it so i hope you do too.   
luv u all.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, let me know what you think xx


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